


Five times Kieran made a mistake

by fusrodie



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Original Player Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusrodie/pseuds/fusrodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(and how it all made a right in the end)</p><p>AU in which there are two dragonborns instead of one, and they get along better than they imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Kieran made a mistake

In retrospect, it  _was_  a stupid idea. The first guard went down before he even knew what hit him. The second tried to run but never reached the gates. The third hid in the nearest farmhouse and, it seemed,  _locked the damn door._  From where he stood, walking down the path to the village, he could see her. Her back was turned, but there was no mistaking her body language. She was paralyzed, crouched behind a wooden fence, likely staring at her late father’s body. Kieran could not remember her name at the time – was it Sissel or Britte? It mattered very little, he reckoned, because in a few more seconds she would be dead.

His arrow nested itself in the dragon’s wing before his mind had registered what he’d done. The ball of fire missed the little one and shot upwards as the beast roared, promptly turning its head towards him. The next one hit the stone he had ducked behind, flames almost setting ablaze the leather of his hood.  He whispered a hushed prayer to the All-Maker before leaving his cover, jumping over stones and the odd tundra cotton bush until he was close enough to touch her. He called to her twice, his voice as controlled as he could muster despite the fear, but she did not budge. He must have yelled then – she stared at him with eyes wide and arms outstretched, and he wasted no time picking her up. Kieran remembers hearing the little girl’s voice, trying to guide him to her house, but it was the inn he ran towards, from where a scared Mralki watched through a particularly large crack in the wooden panel. The door opened just as he reached the last step; Erik took the girl and stepped aside to let him in, and it was then Kieran made the second stupidest thing he could think of: he pushed the door closed.

The dragon flew over the building and perched itself on the rooftop, the flapping of its wings so close it had knocked him off balance. The wooden bow had slipped from his grasp, charred and broken. The breastplate bounced against the steps as he fell, the impact leaving him breathless. At times like these, he cursed himself for never learning how to use a shield. His ward barely had enough time to charge before another gust of fire hit him, the heat close to being unbearable. He could still run, of course, though it would serve only to buy the people enough time to hide. He would run towards the plains, maybe a minute or two, until the dragon would land and proceed to eat him with a single bite. Not a particularly fancy death – but then again, it could be worse. He had come close to dying a handful of times: infected animal bites, puncture wounds caused by antlers, scraps of metal almost hitting him in the eye, an arrow lodged in the crease between his left thigh and his backside. A troll had even ambushed him once, somehow, its arm hitting him square in the jaw as he turned around to see what was  _drooling_  all over his shoulder. A dragon did not sound so bad, though he wished he’d had just a bit more time.

He remembers little of what had happened next; the smell of magic, burnt wood, burnt  _flesh_ , some of it his own. He’d reached for the long-sword on his back when the dragon landed, had buried it deep, twisted, ripped. And just like that, it was over, a familiar tingling that began on his fingertips and spread through his chest. Magic he could not explain coloring the skies as the wyrm was consumed by flames that did not hurt, stripped of scales, flesh, until its bones were all that remained.

“Dragonborn,” the townsfolk repeated like it was a prayer, words that held no meaning to him. Something was amiss, something had  _changed_  within him, but whether that was good or bad, whether that made him a hero, he did not know nor  _care_. This had not been the first time, though he’d wished the one before had been the last.  The battle had taken place in the middle of the night – he had set up camp near Labyrinthian, hidden from view, a hollow in the mountainside serving as protection from the weather. The roar had awakened him, louder and deeper than anything he had ever heard, and he was on his feet just as the ground started to quake, arrow at the ready. He had barely survived, claw markings on his back, a shard of ice that had gone through, front to back, the pain so great he almost couldn’t see through the tears. Something had changed within him when the dragon took its last breath, and whatever it was, it was what had kept him alive long enough for him to mend his wounds. But he had been alone - never before had anyone seen him, noticed him. The people of Dawnstar believed he had been mauled by a particularly angry bear, and he had done nothing to deflect the rumors, even when talk of dragons reached the town.

Speaking of it would bring up questions he had no answer for, and if he closed his eyes he could see it, the fear plastering the people’s expressions. There was no way to escape it this time, and he braced for it as best as he could, sword tip buried in the ground as he held on for support, out of breath and magicka. But the seconds passed, and the twins had been the only ones who’d come his way, Sissel in shock, Britte crying.

The third mistake came soon after, when Mralki had approached him with an offer he couldn’t refuse. A bed for as long as he’d need it, free of charge, a room of his own until his injuries were no longer troubling and the blacksmith had crafted him a new bow or, at the very least, fixed the broken one. The people of Rorikstead knew him as a good man, a hunter who came by to trade and offered fair prices, who always paid for his food and drink and never caused trouble. And now a man who had risked his life to save a child, who had protected the town. When the word “hero” playfully rolled off the innkeeper’s tongue, he could not help the sense of dread that overtook him.

He had no choice but to accept it: his hood had been burnt off, leather gloves singed, fingertips blackened. And it was not the worst of it. Only after he had settled down on the straw bed did he notice the dent in his armor, a half moon shape that spread from his hipbone to his ribs, its twin drawn on his back. The bite hadn’t been deep, else he’d have no more flesh to tell the tale, but now that he had laid eyes on it, the wound burned like he had coated it with a nightshade poultice. He was glad for the silent tavern as he worked; a pained hiss escaped his lips as he discarded the breastplate and bloody undershirt. He rummaged through his pack for bandages and vials, but his peace was short lived. The front door creaked as it opened, footsteps rushing in, a multitude of loud voices he could not discern. But one word was clear,  _Dragonborn_.

Kieran had heard the legends, the rumors on everyone’s lips. Heard of the great heroine and her achievements, the fabled battle in Whiterun’s Western Watchtower, the call of the Greybeards, her use of the voice. A woman with a burning desire to help, a warrior like no other, who could absorb the soul of a slain dragon and shout like in the tales of old. It all sounded eerily familiar, the colorful aura, dragon bones stripped of flesh. They’d said the Thu’um had come naturally, as if she had practiced it a thousand times over. He had made it a point to be as silent as the grave since the first time, when something had shifted and clicked, an ethereal voice whose whispers he couldn’t get out of his head. It spoke to him of nature, of chaos, wind and earth. Spoke to him of things he  _knew_ , things he was too afraid to let out.  _Shout_.

That no one had come to bother with questions should have been a sign, but pain and worry never failed to serve as excellent distracters. He thought of Sissel and Britte, of the promise he had made and couldn’t fulfill, of their father’s senseless death. The place he had been eyeing was bought by someone else, a nice two-story house, close to the market and the guard barracks, safe from bandits, dragons, and the bitter, violent man they had for so long called father. They would have stayed in Rorikstead just a little longer, and now there was no telling when he would find a suitable home, adequate transportation. Sheltering the twins in a small cabin surrounded by snow and wildlife, the nearest city a three and a half hour walk away, skies willing, was hardly a wise decision.

Washbasin, bandages, poultices; herbs, flowers, mushrooms, mortar and pestle. He tries to ignore the bustle as he works, cleans wounds, applies a soothing balm to his burns, patience and precision as he dabs and stitches, until he is halfway through the familiar ritual. The more he tries to ignore it, the more it seems to grind on his ears:  _Dragonborn_ , but it is different this time. Instead of cries for help he hears singing, cheering, metal tankards hitting against one another.

The fourth mistake is born out of carelessness, pure distraction and a habit he can’t get rid of. Knuckles rap against his door, shyly at first, barely audible amidst the noise from outside. It becomes bolder the second time around, startles him, the knife slips from his grasp just enough to make the cut on his ribs a bit deeper. When there is no answer and the person insists, there is a brief moment of pain and despair as he answers, tries to keep his voice even. There is even a smile on his face when he lifts it to look at his visitor, but the person standing just inside is not who he had imagined.

He had hoped to see one of the twins, perhaps the innkeeper’s son; or maybe the retired Stormcloak, Sonja, who had batted her eyelashes and lingered to chat him up the last time he’d been here. But whereas the redhead had eyed him with unbridled interest, stepping closer each time she spoke, what he saw in this woman’s eyes was curiosity, as if he were one of a kind, worthy of study.

She couldn’t be much younger than himself, and surely hadn’t reached her thirtieth winter; she was no seasoned warrior, not someone who had spent their adolescence playing war, but the sword on her back didn’t look like a prop, either. A small smile adorned her lips, though it looked to him like she was nervous, not trying to be friendly. Her eyes spoke of kindness, but her stance screamed confidence, and she took one step, and then another, until the door had closed behind her. She apologized for the intrusion, said she had come to introduce herself. Kieran would come to scold himself over his surly ways during their first meeting; he had interrupted her before she could even say her name, his words cold and uninterested as he made it clear – he _knew_ who she was. She was the most discussed topic in every tavern from Solitude to Riften; he had heard much of her adventures, her stumbling through draugr-infested crypts, and there was always the drunken Nord describing her from head to toe, boasting they had bedded the Dragonborn in some dark cave.

Chikara was her name, and she had shown him the patience of a saint after their first, awkward exchange. Yes, she was Dragonborn, fabled hero, slayer of dragons. A woman who had stumbled upon her destiny and embraced it. Who had more questions than answers, something that pooled and coiled inside her, skills she did not fully comprehend. And they were alike, were they not? Even though they had never laid eyes on one another, even if she did not know his name, she knew more about him than anyone, knew him to be as she was. Knew he could tell, because there was no denying it. They stood apart, alone in the crowd, human but not quite, different from all the rest. But now, standing so close all it would take to touch the other would be the stretch of an arm, it was impossible to ignore how  _familiar_  it felt. It reminded him of his childhood, when he would sit next to his sister by the fire, and feel that even if the world seemed crooked and unwelcoming, he had a place in it, he had formed bonds that would never break.

She had offered to help as she said her piece, clumsily dressing wounds and offering bits of healing magic whenever she poked him with the needle. She had commended his skills: she had been looking for him for _months_ , with nothing to go on. The Greybeards had told her about him - they could hear a whisper, feel a presence, but whoever it was, this person, another of the dragon blood, had chosen to stay hidden. And against their better judgment, she had made the decision to seek him out, asking about mysterious strangers in taverns and courts, going after dragons hoping to stumble upon him. That she had found him had been an accident, Rorikstead a brief stop as she traveled to Markarth. It was curiosity that had driven her, foolish, almost childish excitement, despite the fact he could have been another man entirely, perhaps ruthless and cruel, someone who would cut her down before she could say a word. But he seemed agreeable, if a little sullen, and more importantly, skilled.

It would make sense for them to join forces, she claimed, speaking of world-ending prophecies and a black dragon that was supposed to  _eat_  the world. A dragon she was supposed to kill, a dragon that could only be killed by one such as them. Doom upon all the world was the alternative, and she urged him to consider sharing the responsibility that had been placed square upon her shoulders. She could teach him what she had learned about their kind, teach him about the Thu’um and how to control the growing power within him, and together they could make the world a better place.

He fought the need to laugh, even a slight chuckle sending waves of pain through his body. It was his turn to apologize, and turn her down: whatever, whomever it was she had been looking for, it was not him. He did not believe in prophecies, much less in saving the world, though he appreciated her efforts. He was no hero, he was but a retired thief with too much spare time in his hands, and she would be better off finding someone else, someone whose morals hadn’t been tainted, someone whose hopes hadn’t been crushed. He would keep out of her way, away from dragons and wars, away from the temptation such power could bring.

She hadn’t said another word other than “apologies”, walking out with a sad expression, and the guilt had bitten him right away. It was the only option, he told himself, memories of his adolescence resurging without permission, when his best hadn’t been enough and he had lost too much. Chikara was sat by the fire when he left the room, staring blankly at the flames, deep in thought. No one dared to bother her, a proverbial storm cloud looming over, and it was clear every tenant was interested in knowing what it was the two had discussed. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mralki had been eavesdropping the entire time.

Kieran reached for his gold purse as he approached the counter, where a steaming bowl of stew and a mug of ale awaited. “On the house,” the innkeeper announced, “we can’t thank you enough for saving us”. He had accepted because it would have been too rude otherwise, but the statement had upset him so the food even tasted different. He could feel the stares as he ate, and more than one person had come to thank him. Britte had tugged at his sleeves and given him a bouquet of mountain flowers, because Sissel had told her pretty flowers could heal, and she hoped to see him better soon.

He could not sleep that night. It was hard to breathe and his wounds itched, no position was comfortable enough and he could not help but think about the woman occupying the room right next to his; the woman who had offered him a new perspective, a new opportunity, whom he had treated harshly out of fear. Kieran stared at the ceiling until the sun rose, or so it felt to him, and he was out of bed as soon as the first noise could be heard outside his room.

She saw him from afar when she left her room, leaning against the wall beside the front door, and he was sure he had never seen someone frown so deeply. Whether it was anger or confusion, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, it was clear she did not intend to address him. She tried to storm past, and his hand reached her shoulder, he blurted out an apology and asked her to stay and talk. They spoke outside, standing side by side on the porch. Her speech almost felt like a lecture, brows furrowed as she spoke but voice kept even, and he had mostly found it endearing. He  _was_  to blame for being rude, after all. The last mistake was made as their conversation came to a close, but it almost felt like the right thing to do when she smiled: he had said yes.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write something Skyrim-related forever. Here we go. Kieran is mine, but Chikara is [Katie's](http://kynarreth.tumblr.com/), written with permission. I really wanted to explore a meeting between two Dovahkiins and how their friendship would work, so this came about.
> 
> Stay tuned for more friendship, fluff and adventures (yaay) and thank you for reading!


End file.
